


And So He Dreams

by bukkunkun



Category: OFF (Game), Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Child Abuse, Child Death, Child Murder, Deathfic, Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Harm to Children, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 22:39:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bukkunkun/pseuds/bukkunkun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the years Pitch Black had walked the earth, he had yet to come across a child so hopeless as the one he had found lost in his own little world, meat his only friend and his rocking-bed his only company.</p><p>A sort-of ROTG/OFF AU chock full of headcanons and conspiracy theories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And So He Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> I thought this up in 10 seconds and written in about an hour. Don't judge me, I don't feel very happy and I needed to vent. Also hi rotg fandom i missed you

In the years Pitch Black had walked the earth, he had yet to come across a child so hopeless as the one he had found lost in his own little world, meat his only friend and his rocking-bed his only company.

The little boy—no older than two years of age, Pitch had guessed, had not experienced the taste of neither Christmas dinner, nor the sweet Easter eggs in springtime. He was far too young for memories to be kept yet, and his teeth had yet to fall out. He had never touched the cold kiss of snow, or the chilly embrace of the winds blowing about him.

The Guardians’ touch was evidently absent in him.

The boy had little wonder in his eyes. They looked like hollow holes, wide with soulless emptiness, a wide gaping hole where his childlike wonder had been before it had completely left him.

His fingers, after all, had touched nothing but the meat in his hands, his mother’s skin, his bed’s cloth, his teddy bear, his clothes, his cage, and his tears. His eyes laid on nothing new—it was always the same sight, the same four walls, the same bed and bear and meat. Never the woman he desperately looked for, and most certainly never snow. The boy had never brushed on the concept of _fun_ before.

That made nothing worth remembering. There was nothing beautiful in his cramped tiny little world of four grey walls and bed-cages. Tattered colourless teddy bears held no worth, no thoughts. He was still, like a corpse. Making no move to make memories to hold on.

How could he, though, when it was so evident that there was something there that was missing: hope.

The boy’s eyes were dull like stones at the roadside. They lacked lustre, not just from the absence of wonder, but also that beautiful little golden hope that was nigh impossible to extinguish.

It surprised Pitch that this boy had so little hope in his life, such little memories, non-existent wonder and fun.

However, the boy did dream—dreams of a different world, of a world that was his and his mother’s and theirs alone, with strange little people and strange men and birds, and yet the boy was not one to hold out any hope.

How strange, the Guardian of Fear had thought, but he was never one to turn down a chance to draw on the fear of any child, hopeless or no.

And so his dark Dreamsand touched the boy’s eyes and he dreamed.

* * *

Little Hugo dreamt of a world of plastic and metal, smoke and meat, and sugar, and nervous little men, and powerful beings— _gods_ —and his mother, a Queen most mighty.

And he dreamed, as he always did, yet shadows curled at his peripheral vision.

In a world isolated by seas of liquid plastic, his cat met with a man—a saviour.

A spark lit in the boy’s heart, and the Guardian of Fear had seen it.

So it _was_ possible for the boy to fear.

The saviour, with a mission to purify, looked so much like his father. His Father—his saviour. Little Hugo had prayed that very moment then that his father would be who he should be: the man who would bring him happiness—to save him from his own perdition.

And so little Hugo dreamed, and he dreamed of fear.

And so the saviour continued on his mission of purification, with a human face and human hands and a lovely smile and a kind, deep voice, and a stoic expression, but he cared, he really did, and he was steadfast and ever strong, and he was resolute to carry his mission out to the end, no matter what, no matter how much strength he had to expend, how much things he had to destroy, how much blood, blood, bloodblood _bloodblood **bloodblood**_ —

Little Hugo was screaming as his world tore apart.

The tall man was the first to rise against him—and the man tore him down, and standing over little Hugo’s dear friend, his blood revealed the saviour’s true colours, and it was not a far cry from the blood coating him.

He was a _monster_ —with a long snout and teeth filed to a point, numerous along his jaws, dripping with black death and the blood of his enemies. His skin charred black and rotten, and sagging with the weight of _sin_ and _anger_ and _the blood of innocents_. Large eyes hollow like his own stared into the distance and into little Hugo’s soul, large claws spread and sprayed blood all around him as he let out a heart-tearing roar.

His other friends, the bird and the large man, were torn down just as quickly, and his world, once coloured with what little colours he knew, turned black and white as whispers of the killed filled his head and heart and poured into his soul, burning him alive inside and out.

_stayinyourcomayouevilchild_

_sonofevil_

_yourottenchild_

_youaregoingto **die** apig’sdeath_

_yoursicknesswilleatyoufromtheinsideoutalive_

_andyou’llfeeleverymomentofit_

_you’reyougingto **diediediedie**_

**_DIEDIEDIE_ **

Little Hugo screamed again, out of pain.

He dreamt of his mother, his strong, powerful Queen of his little world, stand before the monster. She fought so hard until the end. Her hands were swift, unforgiving, tearing at black flesh and spilling black goo and blood, starkly contrasting her pure white, and how impure it looked against her beauty.

She died at her husband’s hands, her voice weak, but strong as a stone.

“He… has… your… eyes…”

 _They are full of fear_.

A man—no, _monster_ appeared at his doorway and his eyes looked up at a monster’s eyes, past his torn tunic caked with blood, past his dented bat dripping with blood and bits.

Little Hugo began to cry.

The monster strides forward.

Every breath felt so constricted. Every gulp of air burned, as shadows filled the room, coiling around everything—his throat, his hands, his ankles.

A garbled plea escapes little Hugo’s trembling lips.

The first blow lands, and it is beyond any pain little Hugo knew.

It _hurts_.

The second blow lands, and burning heat blossoms all over the wound, his delicate skin torn and bruised and bleeding and _there’s blood, really red bloodblood **blood no I don’t want it**_

_please_

The following blows came one after the other and little Hugo’s vision swims. Spark after spark of excruciating pain filled his senses as bone after bone shattered beneath the unforgiving metal of the bat and his mind begins to tear, begins to break.

How little Hugo wished to dream a happy dream again.

The shadow coils around his eyes almost reverently, sweetly, as the pain began to fade, as the monster ran out of blood and bone to spill and break, but it offered little comfort to little Hugo.

Little comfort at all.

“I’m… scared of the dark…” he whimpers, as the last lights disappear from view.

* * *

The Guardian of Fear reverently approached the child’s bed, and closed his now-unseeing eyes as a last act of respect.

No child had to die like that, he thought to himself, but the fear of it was exquisite, as he turned silently on his heel to listen to a man and a woman talking outside.

“It’s a terminal illness, Vader, we can’t just—”

“He is our _child_ , Reuben! I won’t let him die like _that_!”

“He’s _dying_ like that, _right now_!”

“He isn’t! He’s not, and never will be!”

Ah, fear and denial, Pitch Black thought to himself. Always hand in hand.

He returned to the child’s side, and brushed his hand over the corpse’s cooling head, and wondered.

Had the hope in his eyes faded that moment of finality?

Thinking back, he realised, it had not.

Little Hugo wished for a happy dream again.

With a soundless sigh, the Nightmare man relented, and pulled away the dark sand from the boy’s eyes and sprinkled what little golden Dreamsand he had left.

At least, in death, he thought.

In death, little Hugo would dream, and he would not dream of fear.

For despite being what he was, Pitch Black knew no child deserved that death he had made them dream.

For after all, fear meant nothing when one is purely filled of it. It is the good that allows the fear to strike.

And so, without a sound, he vanished into the shadows to leave the discovery to little Hugo’s hapless parents. 

**Author's Note:**

> Also, headcanon name for the Batter was either Francis or Reuben. Since this fic is rather dark, I went for Reuben.


End file.
